


Survival of the Fittest

by Fierygirl0 (orphan_account)



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Genocide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Apocalypse, Sadism, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:13:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1869225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Fierygirl0
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The apocalypse didn't come quite in the way people expected it to. What do you do when your friends and neighbors simply keel over, dead without warning? - AU, Aizen/Ichigo, with Shuuhei as a secondary character.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Survival of the Fittest

The apocalypse didn't come the way we expected it to. There were no zombies, no catastrophic losses of power, or nuclear winter. It wasn't even aliens, or a disease, or any of the other hundred ways we thought our world might end. People simply started to die.

A rash of death, of people simply keeling over, with no discernible cause. It wasn't a sickness, it didn't target the weak, or the old, or the young, it just killed. It was sudden, thousands dead in a matter of hours, and millions around the world within a day. It didn't start in a single town and spread, it didn't even seem to start in a single country. There seemed to be no pattern. Whatever 'it' was, it was everywhere instantaneously, and it seemed to kill at random.

Some lived, but none survived. There was no period of grace, no fighting. Either you lived, completely untouched, or you died. If you died, it was by a shredded heart. No other wounds, no possible way to explain what had occurred or where the injury came from. It was a horror for those left standing, and slowly, as what remained of countries and governments fought to stabilize themselves, and started to reach out to others, a pattern emerged.

The targets, were anyone with less than perfect physical health. It didn't matter if you'd been hurt before it began, or if you weren't fit, the only thing that mattered was your genetics. If you had _any_ defect related to health, or even the possibility for it, you died. Those left were without flaws. But the question remained, _what happened?_ There was no invasion, no fight, no one stepped forward to claim the grisly deed. Religions gained followers faster than the corpses gained flies, the priests screaming that clearly this was judgment day, that this - depending on the priest - was either God's or the Devil's work.

Who else could kill so many, so consistently, and in a way that made such little sense?

And after witnessing such terrible things, after the survivors watched friends and family die around them, believing in a higher power was a nice comfort. Whatever had happened, it was unknowable, it was _meant_ to happen. It was an easier path to take.

No one ever discovered what _caused_ the deaths, and it was hard to say whether that was simply from the lack of many living scientists or doctors, or if no one really wanted to look too closely. After all, if they discovered the thing that had reduced our population to a tiny percent of what it was, then that meant it had to be something that someone had _created_.

And what kind of a monster could kill millions so easily, and remain hidden?

* * *

The knife drags over my arm, splitting my skin apart, and I fight the instinctive urge to tense. That will make the pain worse, I _know_ it, and I don't want to make this any worse than it has to be. I pant out a breath, burying my face against the shoulder of the arm not under assault, squeezing my eyes shut. I can feel the blood slide from the fresh wound, and it sickens me that the sensation is as familiar as it is. I try to disconnect, to sink inside my own mind and blank the pain out, but a slap to the injury with the flat of the knife wrenches me back. My head tilts back, jaw clenching as I stifle the urge to cry out in pain.

"Ah, ah," the man above, and beside, me reprimands, his free hand tight around my arm, just above my elbow and below the start of the gash. "No hiding. We've discussed this, remember?" I glare up at him, baring my teeth in a silent snarl, and he meets it with a small smirk. I raise my chin as he brings the knife to my throat, unable to stop myself from swallowing, even though I know he won't kill me, not like this. "Well," he says softly, turning the knife and pressing the flat of the cold metal against the thick scar covering most of the front of my neck, "I guess we haven't."

I try to jerk away from him, out of his grip, but my arm doesn't budge even an inch. I get a hard whack to the front of my throat for my effort, and the impact makes me choke and cough, free arm wrapping around my own chest as I momentarily fight for air.

The knife returns to my arm, slicing into my skin to leave a secondary slash, and the breath I do get comes out again in a huff, my shoulder jerking. The pain's not _too_ bad. It could be - and sometimes is - much worse, but my captor happens to be in one of his less sadistic moods. If I were a little more accepting of my situation, I might actually be grateful for that. But I remember what life was like before all of this, and I can't bring myself to be glad for even the kindest days of his 'entertainment'. Even the relatively small amount of pain, is still pain. He's a sadistic, murdering, bastard, and if I could I'd kill him with my bare hands, or anything else close and sharp enough to be used as a weapon.

Aizen Sousuke.

I have no idea if the people outside figured it out, but thanks to a stupid accident, and some terrible luck, _I_ know what it is that killed almost everyone I knew.

When the deaths started, people panicked. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and a riot blew out the store I was next to, as well as the street beneath it. What should have been solid dirt and asphalt opened to an underground facility, and I got trapped inside it. Not that I had any real chance to try escaping. I hit the ground, and before I could do much more than stir and figure out what had happened, I got hit with pain. Complete and total agony, worse by far than anything this asshole has been able to do to me. I have no idea how long it lasted, or how long I was lying on the white floor, unconscious when I wasn't screaming, but I woke the last time to voices and brown eyes watching me with cold amusement.

I was still far too out of it to understand what the four people above me were saying, and far too weak to struggle. Not that I even knew there was a need to struggle. It wasn't until the owner of the dark brown eyes, Aizen, leaned down with a friendly smile and ripped my throat open with his bare fingers that I realized my situation, and then it was too late.

But I didn't die. By all rights I should have, I didn't have much of a throat left when he was done with me, but the same thing that killed so many people, kept me alive. I didn't know for months, until Aizen confessed his involvement with a smile and in a tone that made it clear he was only telling me for my reaction, and I didn't disappoint. I tore a good chunk out of his hand that day, after he had me pinned and after he'd stopped my attempt to claw his face off.

Nanites. He'd created nanites that spread themselves, silently, throughout the population, with a timer set on them. They remained almost completely dormant until the countdown finished, doing nothing but infecting everyone they could. Then, the moment the last number vanished off the clock, they struck. Targeting anyone with genetic imperfections, killing millions and millions of people in the span of days. Cleansing our race in one fell swoop. But down in this enclosed bunker, in the lab where this monstrosity was created, they had a different purpose. Aizen, and the others he'd recruited, put themselves into induced comas. The nanites within the lab had different instructions, mainly, to upgrade anyone within the area of the bunker. Upping speed, strength, healing, anything that could be enhanced, was. They pushed the human body to the limits it was capable of.

No one else was supposed to be in here, but by falling inside I managed to get the nanites infecting me to do the same as what they were doing to Aizen and the others. Unfortunately, they didn't do it as well.

The comas were necessary, to protect against the pain caused by the inner workings of the human body being changed so drastically. With them out, the nanites could focus on changing what they'd been told to, with little regard for the humans they were working on. With me, it was a constant stop and go between upgrading me, and keeping me alive through the process. I suppose I'm lucky that Aizen had the foresight to make that a priority of the machines, otherwise I would have died within the first few hours.

So, when they came out of their comas, completely enhanced, and shut down the process, the nanites hadn't finished with me. I have some of it, it was at least done smoothly, but I'm not nearly as powerful as Aizen or any of his cronies. If I go toe to toe with any of them, and I have a few times, they win.

If I was anyone else, maybe I could accept the reality of that. The reality, that there's really no point in fighting. It doesn't fix anything, it doesn't solve anything, and maybe if I didn't fight them so much, they wouldn't hurt me as badly. It's a small hope, but it's something.

"Your scar is starting to fade again," Aizen comments softly, and I look up at him. _Shit_. He meets my gaze with a smile, ignoring the fast pace of my breathing. "We'll have to fix that."

The nanites work for older wounds too, and even on me they get around to repairing damage, mainly scars, eventually. Aizen, however, likes me forcibly mute. So when the damage to my throat starts to heal, he renews it. Not as badly as the first time, that left me more or less comatose for a few days, but shredding my throat, again, is enough to stop the older damage from fixing itself.

"Not now, I have other activities in mind, but soon." He releases my arm and I immediately pull it in, cradling the wounded limb against my chest. It's sticky with blood, but at this point that's not something I mind. "Up," he demands, stepping across the room - his room - to set the knife down beside a dozen other equally cruel implements. It's the only bloodstained one, so far, but that probably won't be true later.

I get to my feet, off of the soft bed that Aizen claimed out of someone else's home, as his fingers drift over the other items. He turns his head towards me, darker brown eyes meeting mine. I try to read his intentions in the look, but, like always, he's completely inscrutable. There's amusement, but the only thing behind it is a cold shield. Sometimes I wonder if Aizen even has a soul, with the things he seems capable of. With the things I _know_ he's capable of.

"I think we could both use a shower," he says with a smirk, "don't you?" My teeth clench together, my grip on my injured arm tightening, and his head tilts slightly to one side. "I'll take your silence as agreement," he mocks, and I'm struck with nearly equal urges to run, and to see if just this once, I might be able to really hurt him.

A shower means something bloody, something he doesn't have any interest in cleaning up later, and, more than likely, a little 'fun' afterwards, or during. I'm Aizen's personal toy, in every way, and I have very little choice but to take whatever he chooses to do to me. Ropes and chains can't usually hold me, but he can, and easily.

His hand pauses, and he picks something up off of the top of the dresser. My throat tightens.

He fits the creation onto his hand, flexing once to ensure it stays in place, before fully turning to me. It's one of my least favorite pieces, mostly because it's what he tends to use to rip my throat apart. Ripping it out with his bare fingers was fine, the first time, but doing it that way causes a lot more damage than he needs or wants to. It's a harness that lays over his hand, fitting small, wickedly sharp metal caps onto the ends of his fingers. Essentially, he's just given himself claws. Like the bastard needed any more weapons.

"Are you going to come quietly, _dear,_ " he asks softly, "or must I convince you?

Tempted as I am to run the hell away from those claws, I know for a fact that he'll catch me. I settle for standing my ground, eying the weaponized hand resting calmly on the table with wariness. He smirks, starting towards me, and though a shudder shakes my shoulders I don't back away. There's nowhere to go anyway. He reaches me in a few steps, reaching up to trace the edges of the claws over my jaw. I stay perfectly still, barely daring to breathe, and they move away without carving open my face.

"Shall we?" he says, with a sweeping gesture towards the door to my left, leading into his bathroom. I pause, trying to gauge what kind of a mood he's in, but to my frustration I come up with nothing. I thought he was in a less sadistic mood, but I must have misjudged. I wait too long, and his left hand flashes forward, clamping down around my upper arm and directly over my wounds. My breath comes out in a harsh gasp, the best imitation of a cry I can give, as he pulls me across the room. "It is so very amusing that you still think you have any kind of a choice in this, dear. But I'm rather glad you've kept some kind of spirit." He pushes the door to the bathroom open and pulls me inside, blood slipping down my arm and around his hand as his grip forces more of it from my wounds. He throws me against the wall, not hard enough to crack the tile, but enough to drive the air from me, as he smiles. That _fucking_ smile.

He doesn't bother demanding that I strip out of my clothes, pinning me to the wall by my throat with his left hand. He shreds the cloth off me with his claws, leaving behind thin furrows where the metal snagged my skin on the way past. I'd yell if I could, but I can only settle for silently snarling, and trying not to move too much. The air is cold, and when he releases me I curl in on myself in a mixture of discomfort and shame. It's nothing new, being naked in front of Aizen, but that hasn't made it any easier. He slips out of his own clothing, without damaging it, and I turn my eyes away.

I have no idea what Aizen was before, so I have no idea if he was as physically perfect, but if he wasn't, then the nanites did one hell of a job on him. If his dark brown eyes weren't soulless pieces of ice, the face they're in would be beyond handsome, framed perfectly by slicked back brown hair. He's smooth, hard muscle, any trace of old scars or injuries gone. Even the chunk I took out of his hand, one of the few injuries I've ever managed to inflict on him, healed quickly and seamlessly. If it wasn't like this, if I wasn't held captive and tortured by the psychotic bastard, maybe I might have been able to appreciate his looks. As it is, this was _not_ the place to realize that I liked men as opposed to women.

He steps into the shower, open and tiled in a dark green and blue pattern, turning on the water with a twist of the knob protruding from the wall. It dampens his hair to near black, running down his face and frame in rivulets. "Come in," he demands, without opening his eyes, "or I will drag you in."

As much as I despise the idea, _knowing_ what's going to happen in there, I really don't have any other options. I haltingly push off the wall, holding my injured arm to my chest as I approach the shower. I step over the small raised portion, the only thing holding any water inside, and Aizen's head turns to me, brown eyes flicking open. He gives a slow, heated smile, reaching out with his clawed hand and wrapping it around my uninjured arm. I fight the urge to flinch or pull away, knowing how easily those claws could turn my arm into ribbons of flesh. He slowly pulls me closer, into the spray of water, and in front of him. He presses against my back, releasing his grip, but quickly taking both of my wrists in his hands. I swallow as he guides my hands up to press against the wall of the shower, clenching tightly for a moment before letting them go. I close my eyes, hanging my head between my arms, trying to ignore the sting of the water in the slices on my arm.

Aizen's hands slip over my sides, my hips, over other wounds in every stage of healing. Faded scars, newer ones, sealing gashes, and those barely scabbed close. I shudder, and Aizen makes a sound of satisfaction into the back of my neck. His left hand slides around to the front of me, closing over my cock and slowly stroking it. I swallow down the urge to make noise, only partially because I can't, teeth clenching together. Metal slices into my side and my mouth contorts in a cry that comes out silent. I don't have to open my eyes to know that the four lines of fire over my ribs are leaking blood, or that it's being diluted and washed away by the water. Probably quite a bit of it, judging by the feeling.

Aizen's hand continues it's inexorable strokes as the other wanders my skin, finding new places to mark my flesh, adding new wounds to my collection. I hate that my cock slowly fills, hardening in his hand, even though I know it's nothing I can prevent. I don't enjoy the pain, I _don't_ , and I damn well don't like Aizen, but he's had a long time to condition me. He couldn't get me to like the pain, though he certainly tried, but it's stopped being an impediment to pleasure. The adrenaline high from the injuries contributes, the blood loss making the pleasure more overwhelming than it has a right to be. I pant, my breath coming in shuddering gasps, because that's all I can manage as he works me towards an edge I have no desire to go over.

His claws dig deep into my right hip, the shock of pain bringing tears to my eyes, and he presses against me, his erection pushing against my lower back. Sadistic bastard. "Come for me," he murmurs in my ear, and I have very little choice but to obey. Not for him, though. _Never_ for him.

I go rigid, my head tilting back as my throat works in a scream that comes out as a harsh shove of air, my cock jerking and spilling seed over Aizen's hand and the tile of the shower. The tears slip from my eyes at the intensity, and I slip into blackness as the lightheadedness overtakes me.

I wake in a situation that shouldn't be familiar, but is. I'm face down on what I can recognize as Aizen's bed, and it only takes a moment to equate the incoming sensations as the other man fucking me. There's really no pleasure in it for me, but that's not unusual either, and at least there's no pain in the penetration. I shift, tilting my head to one side to make breathing easier. My hips are in his grip, and I notice with relief that the metal claws are gone, it's just his fingers. That's dangerous enough, but at least I'll just get bruises.

His right hand slips up my back, and I give a startled huff of pain as he takes a handful of my hair and jerks up and back, forcing me to arch. _That_ hurts, my wounds stretching along with me, and I can feel the trickle of blood from the new marks on my side. I _think_ those are the only wounds that have opened, but it's hard to tell. I brace with my left arm, holding myself in the arch, and he releases me after a few moments. I bend forward, and his hand returns to my hip. It presses down over the puncture wounds he'd put there, and I shiver.

It's hard to say how long he fucks me, or how long he had been before I woke back up, but it feels like at least half an hour before he speeds up, slamming into me with enough force that the impact of his hips against mine actually hurts. His hands clench down and I tense in pain, trembling for a few moments as the pain feeds itself into my mind and I feel Aizen's hips jerk, the warm spread of fluid inside me. He slowly grows soft inside me, leaning down over my back and pressing a nipping kiss to the skin over one of the higher knobs of my spine.

"Always a pleasure," he murmurs with a soft chuckle, slipping from me, and I wince at the feeling. The familiar swell of emotion, of feeling _useless_ , _degraded_ , assaults me, but I ruthlessly shove it away. I can deal with my problems alone, in _private_. Aizen will _not_ know how badly he affects me, not if I can help it.

I close my eyes for a moment, just breathing, before cautiously twisting to look at my captor. He smirks at me, retrieving clothes from his dresser, and tosses a few articles at me. With so many dead, most towns just got straight out abandoned. Supplies aren't something we lack, not at all. Some of the others scavenge, but I'm not allowed outside.

A rumbling bang startles me, jerking me into a crouch on the bed, and Aizen only visibly reacts by turning his head. It's just a sound, though one that sounds remarkably like an explosion, but after a few moments his lips curl into a smirk.

"Well, well... I do believe we have visitors." I freeze, barely able to breathe as Aizen, far faster than usual, slips into clothing. "Stay here," he orders, leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. I nearly leap into motion the moment it closes, dragging the pair of grey pants and the plain black t-shirt on as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the stinging ache as they press against my new injuries.

Like _hell_ I'm staying here. People, actual people, ones that aren't going to torture or rape me? Actual _survivors_? Oh Christ, Aizen's going to fucking kill them all.

I pause, and then approach the dresser, staring down at the row of weapons. I press down the fear, reaching for the still bloody knife, and wrap my fingers around the handle.

* * *

We'd noticed the hastily fixed hole in the street, and blown our way in, expecting a basement or something similar. This is not at all a basement. We've blown into a long corridor, the walls, ceiling, and floor all white. There's nothing nearby that should have an underground section like this, that looks so much like, quite honestly, some evil scientist's lair. More to the point, it's still got working electricity, judging by the lights in the ceiling, and that speaks to a private generator that could be very, _very_ useful. There might even be survivors, people living here that we can bring back to join the settlement.

Me, and the other five members of my scavenging team, are part of a much larger expedition. This is a fairly small town, but there are six other teams just like mine sweeping other sections. We're scavenging whatever useful supplies we can find to bring back to the survivor's settlement, our slowly growing population. Of course, this is just Japan, and our list of survivors is much smaller than those of other countries, just because of the population and size difference. Our leaders have established some basic contact with other settlements around the world, and it looks pretty dim. They're thinking of instituting a breeding program, to properly diversify genetics and give the human race the best chance of survival.

At least those remaining are guaranteed to be healthy, that's one sick benefit to this whole horror show.

"We'll split up," I decide, announcing it to the rest of my team. "Izuru, you're with me, we'll go straight ahead. Yumichika, Ikkaku, head the other direction. Nanao, Renji, stay and guard our exit, just in case whatever is down here is unfriendly. Soon as we've established it's clear, we'll scavenge. Understood?"

I get a chorus of agreement, and one cocky salute from Renji, the eyes of my teams falling briefly to their weapons in a last check. Nanao's eyes rise first, and she grips her pistol a little more firmly, raising it to point down the corridor. "You might want to hold off on exploring, Shuuhei," she says, nodding behind me, "we've got company."

I turn, raising my own pistol on automatic to match the direction she's pointing towards. There's a group of four heading down the corridor to us, dressed in what look like formal shirts and slacks. There's only four, and none, at least from this distance, seem to be carrying any kind of a weapon, so I don't reach for the rifle across my back. I take a single glance back to make sure that Ikkaku and Yumichika are watching the other direction, as they should be, just in case this is some kind of a trap. They are, and I focus my attention on the approaching group.

"That's close enough," I call, as they get about fifteen feet away from us, and the man in front holds out a hand to pause the others with him. He smiles at me, a cool friendliness in his brown eyes, hands clasping in front of him. "Tell me your intentions and your affiliation!" I demand, and there's the slightest flash of amusement in the brown eyes.

"I'm Aizen Sousuke," he says in a deep baritone, "and my companions are Ichimaru Gin," a tall, skinny man with chin length silver hair and a truly disturbing grin, "Grimmjow Jaegerjacques," a built, blue-eyed and blue-haired man, the only one in a normal black tank-top, "and Tia Halibel." A blond woman, with slightly dark skin and bright green eyes. "Our only intention was to greet you, it isn't every day someone blasts through our ceiling, and we have no affiliation to anyone but ourselves. We've been down here since the purge."

The 'purge'? Oh, I really hope they're not yet another group of religious fanatics. I don't put stock in the whole 'God did it' answer for the decimation of our race, and those who do tend to rub me the wrong way. Preaching that we're the 'chosen ones', and we should praise some lord in the sky that decided to _only_ kill most of us, just in case he decides I'm not worthy either.

"And you?" Aizen asks, eyes flicking to my gun. "Should I fear a bullet?"

I shake my head, dropping my gun a few inches, though not entirely lowering it. There's something about the group that doesn't sit quite right with me, that I don't quite trust, and I tend to believe gut feelings like this. "We're from the main Tokyo settlement, scavengers. We've got a few teams scanning the town for supplies and survivors. What government we still have is gathering people there."

"Well," Aizen says, smile rising a little further, "we have a few things that need to be taken care of, some things to pack together, but we could be ready in, perhaps, a couple of hours?"

I'm about to nod in agreement, despite the weird feeling, when I catch a flash of orange behind the group and the blue-haired man, Grimmjow, gives a roar of pain, clutching at a suddenly bloody arm as a young man slips around the group, skidding to a crouching stop between my group and Aizen's. He's holding a knife in his left hand, dripping blood, and is dressed in a pair of grey cargo pants and a black t-shirt that look virtually new. As he straightens up, standing but still poised to strike, I can see several long gashes on the outside of his upper right arm, not bleeding but certainly not close to healing.

"You little _bastard_ ," Grimmjow snarls, taking a step forward, but Aizen places his hand on the other man's chest, halting him in his tracks.

"That," Aizen says softly, with a small smile at me, "would be one of them." His lack of fear, or any real reaction, despite the state of his companion's arm, unsettles me. "My apologies, sir. I'm afraid the purge drove this one a little insane. We had him in captivity, but it appears he heard your entry and escaped his cell."

Remarkably new, and clean, clothes for someone who's been in a cell, and those wounds look a little too straight to be self-inflicted in a place like that, never mind how he would have gotten a weapon. Something about this is definitely _wrong_.

The young, orange-haired man leaps at Aizen, faster than I thought was possible, and I barely have time to raise my gun the few inches necessary before they clash. Aizen slips aside with the same unnatural speed, catching the left-handed thrust and twisting the young man's wrist to force him to release the knife. The moment he does, Aizen catches it by the blade as it falls, spinning it to grip the hilt, and drives it deep into the young man's left side. There's no sound, no cry or scream of pain, the young man simply jerks and folds in on himself. The whole thing happens in the span of about three seconds.

Aizen retrieves the blade, pulling it from the orange-haired man's side, holding him up by his wrist. "I've warned you about playing with sharp objects, haven't I?" There's something cold and _vicious_ about the older man's tone, and that cements the fact in my head that if the young man isn't a friend to us, Aizen and his group certainly aren't friends either.

"Let him go," I demand, and Aizen's gaze rises to meet mine. He gives a small smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes.

"Yes, I suppose that _was_ rather a good show." His smile turns sharp, and he straightens a few inches, knife held loosely in his right hand. "Capture, don't kill. I want them alive."

It's sudden pandemonium. The three at Aizen's back charge us, moving with an inhuman speed, and the sound of gunshots fills the corridor. The young man surges to his feet, going at Aizen and for the knife, and I get distracted by the skinny one - Ichimaru - before I can find a shot to take down Aizen.

"Shoot to kill!" I shout, turning to put a bullet in Grimmjow, coming at us from the right side. It hits him where I'm _damn_ sure the heart is, but apart from jerking him back against the wall for a moment, all he does is laugh.

"They don't go down!" Renji shouts back from just behind me, as a bullet whizzes past my head and hits Ichimaru square in the chest, driving him back a step. He looks right back up, grin still on his face even with blood staining his white shirt.

"Then just put as many bullets in them as you can!" That's Ikkaku, and I hear and feel the shock of his shotgun go off, knocking Halibel to the ground. I exhaust the clip on my gun, into Ichimaru, and drop it, reaching for the rifle across my back. I've got a second handgun at my waist, but this is by far the better option right at the moment.

They get past our lines, and Grimmjow bodily picks me up by the front of my vest - eliminating any leftover doubt that these people were normal humans - and flings me into the wall. The world goes blurry when I hit, and I'm sure I spend at least a few moments totally out of it, before I can blink my way back to some semblance of vision. Grimmjow hits the ground in front of me, a large hole in his forehead and another in his throat, blue eyes glazed.

I turn to find Aizen, and find him pinning the young man up against the wall by the throat, free hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife where it's impaled in the young man's right thigh. I raise my rifle, without really thinking about it, and unleash a burst of fire into Aizen's side. Blood spreads, and the brown-eyed man staggers, releasing his grip on the injured one. The young man slides to the floor, leaving a streak of blood on the wall, and Aizen turns his attention to me. His eyes are narrowed, and in the face of the death the look promises I simply react. I pull down the trigger, letting everything I have go, straight into Aizen's chest. He falls after what feels like _way_ too much damage, and I let the trigger reset. He looks up, arms sliding beneath him to rise again, a sneer twisting his lips, and fear starts to creep into me.

 _Christ_ , how much will it take to put these guys down for good? Am I going to look over and watch Grimmjow get back up from the hole in his head? What the _hell_ are they?

The young man shifts, behind Aizen, and looks up, wrenching the knife from his thigh. He shakes, but his grip on the knife is white-knuckled. He moves as Aizen starts to stand, grabbing the back of the older man's shirt and dragging him down, the knife coming around and plunging deep into the brown-eyed man's throat. Those brown eyes go wide, and one hand grasps at the young man's wrist. Orange hair obscures his eyes and most of his face, but there's no mistaking the intention when he pulls the knife back out. I swallow, staring with wide eyes as the young man drives the knife back in, repeatedly. Until finally Aizen stills, completely, and the orange-haired man collapses back against the wall. He's trembling, one hand pressed to his thigh and the other to his side, the knife left protruding

After a few moments, I realize that the sound of gunfire has stopped. I look up, finding Ichimaru sunken into the rubble our explosion had created, and Halibel lying face down some distance down the corridor, in front of a very pale Izuru.

"Everyone alright?" I call, dragging myself to my feet. It's more difficult than I thought it would be, the world spinning, and I brace against the wall.

"Bastard snapped my arm," Renji growls, leaning against the opposite wall, about five feet from Ichimaru's body.

"It's alright," Ikkaku grumbles, slowly levering himself up out of the pile of dirt and asphalt, "I didn't need my ribs anyway."

Yumichika sighs, flipping one hand in a manner that only _he_ could pull off so elegantly. "It just means the both of you will be uglier than usual," he laments. "My poor senses will clearly be the greatest casualty of this battle."

"Prissy bastard," Ikkaku nearly snarls, and Renji gives a laugh. Yeah, they're alright. I get a nod from Nanao, reloading her sniper rifle - probably the weapon that had taken down Grimmjow - and another from Kira, as he stands.

I turn my gaze to the young man, shaking off my dizziness and slowly approaching him. I keep my hands on my rifle, just in case, but I highly doubt that he's any threat to us. "Hey," I greet, standing a few feet away from him, and he looks up at me. He's got light brown eyes, and he honestly looks pretty numbed out. My gaze falls to his neck, and I inhale sharply at the thick scar covering most of the front of it. "Can you speak?" I ask softly, and after a moment of staring at me, he shakes his head. "Thank you, for your help. Without the warning, they probably would have killed us all."

A quiet huff of breath leaves his mouth, and he gives a single nod. I'm not sure if it's an intended 'yeah, no shit', or a 'you're welcome', but either way works I suppose.

"I have a medic on my team," I tell the young man, "will you let him treat you?" Another pause, and a flicker of wariness, before he nods. "Izuru," I call, beckoning him over. He approaches us, skirting Aizen's corpse, and kneels by the young man. He's in the way of my view, so I don't know what it is that he gasps at, but he immediately stands back up and turns to me.

"This is too much for the supplies I have, he needs to come back with us to the camp."

I nod, looking down at the young man. "Will you come with us?" He hesitates, glancing between Izuru and me, and I share a glance with my medic, and friend. He's pale, not just from the leftover of Halibel attacking him, and his mouth is set in a determined line that I very rarely see on the rather shy man.

Izuru sinks back to his knees, reaching out to grasp one of the young man's bloody hands. "I promise, none of us will hurt you," he says softly. "You've seen enough of that." The young man shudders, wincing, but after a few moments he nods in acceptance. "I'm Kira Izuru, our leader is Hisagi Shuuhei, the redhead is Abarai Renji, the bald one," an outraged shout from Ikkaku, "is Madarame Ikkaku, the woman is Ise Nanao, and our pretty boy is Ayasegawa Yumichika. You'll be alright, I promise." He looks up at me. "Shuuhei, help me get him up?"

I secure my rifle over my back before I reach down, taking the other bloody hand, and we lift him to his feet, wrapping his arms over our shoulders to carry his weight. He's actually remarkably mobile for someone with a hole in their thigh and side, and needs very little of our help to move. I guess that would make sense if he's the same as whatever these bastards were.

"Alright," I call out to our group. "Gather what we came down with - if someone could pick up my gun, please? - we're headed back to camp to fix ourselves and drop a report to the captain. Come on, let's go!"

* * *

I blink dully down at the dirt floor, sitting on the edge of one of those terrible military cots. Despite my enhancements, the blood loss is getting to me. When I get injuries as bad as the ones in my side and thigh, that usually means that Aizen's done with me, and I don't have anything more taxing to do than lie there and bleed, I'm not used to having to keep moving.

My mouth curls into a tiny smirk at the memory of the fight in the hallway, of the feeling of driving the knife into Aizen's throat. For once, just _once_ , I had the upper hand, and it was so, _so_ gratifying to take my revenge for every scar on me, old, new, or healed. The _bastard_ is dead, he'll never touch me again, and _I'm_ still alive. I'll finally get a chance to heal, someday I might even be able to speak again. Take _that_ , sadistic fucker. I win.

The blond soldier, Kira, enters the tent, followed a moment after by the kind, black-haired one, Hisagi. I look up, dragging another breath in and feeling the familiar cold at the tip of my fingers. I'll be fine, Aizen's done much worse to me than this, I just need rest and food. God, if I could have some real food.

"Do you mind if I'm here?" Hisagi asks, and I shake my head. He ties the tent flap closed as Kira crosses the room to the table of medical supplies. If I had just a little more coordination left in me, if I hadn't had already been weak when I jumped into the fight, I would have started on my own. Unfortunately, I'm not totally sure that the movement wouldn't have crossed me over the edge into unconsciousness. Best not to panic the soldiers.

Kira approaches me with a pair of safety scissors, and I straighten up a little to give him room to work. He goes for my pants first, slicing off the cloth a few inches above the knife wound, letting the heap fall to the floor, and then for my shirt. It comes off easily enough, only sticking to my side a little bit, and I get twin gasps of horror as the cloth falls away from me. I look up at Kira, and then at Hisagi, trying to figure out exactly what has them so freaked out, before I remember the map of scars and half-healed cuts covering pretty much the entirety of my torso. Right. So much for not panicking the soldiers.

"I, you can't," Kira stammers, before finally bursting out with, "You should be dead!"

I shrug, letting my gaze travel to Hisagi, and find his jaw clenched tight in anger. "Aizen?" he asks, and I nod. I should probably be more freaked out than I am, but right now I'm in a very comfortably numb place, and I'm really not keen to leave it. Leaving it means dealing with killing Aizen, with everything he did to me, and that's not really something I want to do. I know I'll have to, eventually, but not yet. Just for right now, let me drift in numbness.

Kira flails a little before setting to work on my wounds. He goes for the fresh ones first, dousing them with alcohol, and I let out a long breath at the sharp pain. My thigh is still faintly dripping, aggravated from walking here, but the hole in my side stopped bleeding a while back. Kira looks at it in confusion, but doesn't comment, heading for a needle and thread. I head him off when he comes at me, shaking my head and blocking him with one hand. I heal too fast, stitches will only impede progress. Kira protests, but Hisagi cuts him off.

"You're like the others, aren't you?" he asks, and I raise one hand to make a 'so-so' gesture. "You can take a lot of damage, do you heal faster too?" I nod, and he echoes the nod. "I don't think he needs them, Izuru, just wrap them and let them be." Kira huffs, but reaches for the rolls of bandages, and Hisagi watches me for a few moments. "Can you write?" Again, I nod an affirmative. "We'll get you something to communicate with as soon as possible. Is there any way you can tell us your name?"

For once, I thank the simplicity of my given name. There are no handy strawberries lying around, but I can shove it together. I nod, holding my hand up with one finger, and then five.

"Ichi-go?" Kira asks, and I gesture an affirmative.

"Good to meet you, Ichigo," Hisagi says quietly. "Welcome to the survivors."


End file.
